7 Madness in Miniature (13 page)

Young women like Jeanine were always a pleasure to talk to, and for a while I put worry about Catherine and the whereabouts of Skip and Maddie out of my mind. I learned of Jeanine’s ambitious plans to transfer from community college to a state university and then on to graduate school.

“I was going to major in psychology,” she said. “But I don’t know. What’s the point? Do we really know anything about human nature?” Fortunately, Jeanine didn’t pause long, and I didn’t have to answer, though I had little doubt what had prompted the heavy thoughts. “I keep thinking about Ms. Duncan. I can’t believe someone I’ve known for almost a year actually killed a person. Do you really think she could have done it, Mrs. Porter? Did she kill Mr. Palmer?”

There was no way out of this one. We’d taken a brief break and were seated on two sturdy crates eating grapes from Jeanine’s lunch bag. Megan was still in the back room but was now working on her laptop. I thought of inviting her to join this conversation. She knew both Catherine and Craig better than either Jeanine or I did. I discarded the idea.

“I know it’s hard to deal with, Jeanine. And we may never understand why people kill each other, after so many centuries of what we call civilization.” I took a breath, reminding myself that I didn’t need to be making speeches right now. “As far as what went on right here in this store on Saturday, I can’t bring myself to believe that Catherine, who was my student, is a murderer. Remember, we don’t have all the facts yet, so let’s just wait and see.”

I couldn’t imagine a more pitiful performance, but I was as befuddled as Jeanine, leaning more toward acceptance than I’d let on to Jeanine, that the case was closed. And wasn’t that a good thing, no matter that I knew the accused? Wasn’t it time for me to go shopping with my sister-in-law and granddaughter for pretty shoes for all of us?

“I’ve never known anyone who was murdered,” Jeanine said, possibly unaware of my comments, which wouldn’t have been a great loss. “My boyfriend and I were talking about it. It scares me that one of the people here could be a killer. Do you know that the other two girls who were hired were supposed to be here today? They called in sick, but I think they’re just too scared to work here. Do you think I should quit?”

I asked myself, what would I have told Maddie? That the world was a mixed bag of good people and bad and that living scared wasn’t the best option? I said as much to Jeanine. “By all accounts, this wasn’t random. Someone wanted Craig Palmer dead and used the opportunity presented by the earthquake. No one broke in hoping to find a victim or wanting to steal a vase or some yarn. As soon as the police have analyzed the fingerprints and all the other evidence they’ve gathered”—the alleged evidence, I thought—“it will make some sense. Well, maybe not sense, but…”

“I know what you mean, Mrs. Porter. And I’m not a quitter in general.”

‘’Who’s quitting?” Megan Sutley had come up behind us and now made herself known.

“I’m just taking a short break, Ms. Sutley,” Jeanine said. “I’m not quitting.”

Megan waved away Jeanine’s nervous explanation. “Mind if I pull up a crate?” she asked, while doing so. I’d noticed at the balloons-or-no-balloons meeting, and when I ran into her at the police station before her interview, that she’d shed her obsequious manner; she showed more confidence, almost relief, which was understandable given the kind of boss Craig Palmer seemed to be.

“This is the first time I’ve been this far into the store,” Megan said.

“Ever?” Jeanine asked.

“Uh-huh. Remember I just got into town a couple of nights ago and then after the … the death, I couldn’t bring myself to walk farther than the meeting room. But I overheard you chatting and I needed a little company. This whole thing is certainly outside any experience I’ve ever had.”

“It’s crazy,” Jeanine said, her position on many things, I noted. “Ms. Duncan in jail? I mean, I didn’t think Mrs. Mellon was guilty either. I don’t know what to think.”

“Here’s what I think: The police around here are at a complete loss with an honest-to-goodness homicide on their hands,” Megan said.

I threw my shoulders back, ready to pounce. I might have started with “What’s so honest or good about a homicide?” but Jeanine saved the day. Perhaps she knew what I was capable of when it came to defending the LPPD in public, and was afraid I’d be nasty to a woman who was currently one of her bosses. “We’ve had lots of homicides here,” Jeanine said. “Well, not lots, but we have the best detectives. Mrs. Porter’s nephew is amazing.”

I could hear the town council in a frenzy at Jeanine’s defense of Lincoln Point, touting its ability to hold its own with a murder rate to be reckoned with.

“I believe it was my nephew who interviewed you at the station,” I said, barely containing my pique.

“The cute redhead?” Megan asked with what might have been interpreted as a flirty grin. (
Hands off
, I thought.) Unlike Catherine, she had not abandoned her New York wardrobe and had been in black every time I’d seen her. Today’s sleeveless linen two-piece outfit was the kind advertised as being able to go from the boardroom to the cocktail party with a quick change of accessories. Her purse was the third one I’d seen her with in as many days, this one black with enough silver grommets, rivets, and chains to support a small bridge.

I wanted to tell Megan she was definitely not his type, but in fact Skip’s girlfriends over the years had all been of slight build with dark hair. They’d all been nice however, whereas Megan had been insulting, starting with her ridiculing the KenTucky Inn. So what if most residents also blushed at it; it wasn’t fair game for a stranger. I liked her better when she was a meek gofer, padding along behind her boss.

“I guess we’ll never forget when it happened,” Jeanine said. “I’m afraid from now on every time there’s a quake, I’m going to think of the murder.” She sighed, resigned. “Did you feel it, Ms. Sutley? The earthquake, I mean?”

“I did, and some things broke in my hotel room.”

Megan had already told me that she was in her room, and had shared all she knew about Leo’s movements, that he’d stayed a little later at the store with Craig. How late, I wondered. I’d yet to find a way to determine Leo’s timeline. If only I knew someone on the LPPD force who would tell me, I mused. That is, in case I decided not to butt out.

“What’s a killer like anyway?” Jeanine was back on her psychology track. I didn’t blame her. “I mean, do they look normal? Do they show up for class and work and all? Pay their tuition?” It was easy to figure out Jeanine’s stage of life.

“I’m sure some of them do,” I said.

“Unfortunately they don’t wear labels,” Megan added. “I read somewhere that under the right…or wrong…circumstances, anyone might kill.”

Jeanine rubbed her arms. “That’s creepy.”

“I agree,” Megan said.

“Are you going to stay around, Ms. Sutley? I mean, not to be nosy, but I’m wondering…”

“Who’s going to be your boss?”

Jeanine nodded. “If you know and can tell and don’t mind.”

Megan’s eyes seemed to cloud over as she looked out the tinted window. At what? Her future? It was hard to tell. “I really can’t even say who will be my boss, let alone yours, Jeanine.” Megan waved her hand in the direction of the back room, as if Leo were still there. “We’re trying to work it all out now. Ultimately, Corporate will decide, of course,” she said, as if Corporate were the name of the person who held her fate in his hands. Joe or Jane Corporate, I thought, amusing only myself. Megan stood and brushed the back of her skirt, which was smaller than some dinner napkins I owned. She threw back her shoulders. “But you can bet I’ll come out a winner this time.” I wanted to ask what kind of game they were playing, what the prize was, but Megan seemed ready to leave and I didn’t want to detain her. “Well, I’m going to take off,” she said. “Can you lock up, Jeanine?”

Jeanine stuttered an “I guess so,” and gave me a frantic look.

“I can hang around a while,” I said.

“Beyond the call of duty, Gerry,” Megan said, chummy now that we’d chatted on crates together, and wandered off toward the back exit.

“Thanks, Mrs. Porter,” Jeanine said. “Usually, I wouldn’t mind, but—”

But a murdered man and his killer occupied this very ground about forty-eight hours ago. “No problem,” I said. “Let’s finish the job. One more box to unload, and when you come in tomorrow you’ll just have to put the finishing touches on the shelves. Tell me about your boyfriend. You say you met him at school?”

“Oh, yeah, Ethan. He’s another story, Mrs. Porter. He writes poetry.”

Uh-oh, I thought. Things were tough for people in the creative arts. I knew only a few people who could make a living at miniatures, for example. And even they had back-up finances handy, in the form of an inheritance or a partner with a more traditional nine-to-five job. The few miniatures stores that were left, shops my crafter friends and I would travel many miles to visit, had of necessity given over half or more of their space to other products, from soaps and sundries to vintage clothing.

“Does he have a job, besides writing poetry?”

“Uh-uh,” she said, removing spools of ribbon from a carton.

Like the yarn, the ribbons were of many designs and materials. I read the names as I handed the products to Jeanine. Holographic, lacquered, metallic, moiré, flocked, raffia, and at least a dozen more coming up, all in different colors and widths.

“He won’t even take any practical classes,” Jeanine continued. “I keep telling him he has to earn a living, you know, but he doesn’t seem to get it. He wants to follow his heart. He doesn’t understand why I take jobs like this.” Jeanine held up a spool of narrow red crimped curling ribbon as a sample of her job duties. “He self-published a couple of sets of poems. They don’t make any money, but you might like them, Mrs. Porter.”

“How interesting,” I said. As a former English teacher, I hated to admit that I wasn’t a fan of any poetry published after the nineteenth century, with the possible exceptions of T. S. Eliot and Robert Frost. And some days, Sylvia Plath.

“I’ll write down the names for you,” she said, stopping to take a small notebook from her pocket. As she wrote the titles, she explained that the Lincoln Point library refused to buy them, but Rosie of Rosie’s Book Shop had agreed to keep a few copies on the counter.

I took the piece of paper she tore out of the notebook. “I’ll have to check them out,” I said, not mentioning when that might be.

“So, what do you think? Should I encourage him? Maybe you need to read the poems first? I confronted him again this weekend about the need to earn some money. Like, I don’t mind paying for things when we go out, but he needs to start contributing.” She sighed. “Then I think, maybe I’m stifling his creativity?”

This conversation wasn’t what I had in mind. I couldn’t face another lovers’ quarrel or another case of mismatched couples. Fortunately Jeanine simply wanted to talk, and did so as we emptied the ribbon carton. She didn’t wait for my advice, which was good, because I was fresh out.

At three o’clock
on Monday, Jeanine clocked out and I guarded her while she locked up SuperKrafts. She hoped I’d like Ethan’s poems and thanked me again for my advice regarding her boyfriend. If the word “advice” had been replaced by “listening,” she’d have had reason to be grateful, but if she thought I did her some good, I didn’t want to talk her out of it. We said good-bye and I headed home.

It felt good to have been productive in one area at least: preparing a retail store with my favorite kind of merchandise for business on Wednesday. I’d had a voice mail message from Skip telling me that he and Maddie were having a good day and would see me midafternoon. I thought “having a good day” might be code for “she’s not into boys” or something else. Or maybe they were simply having a good day.

Not so Catherine Duncan, I suspected. I wondered how she was faring and if I’d be allowed to see her. Probably not a chance. I imagined some highly paid lawyer from the SuperKrafts staff was on a plane now, and that a criminal attorney would follow shortly. What if she’d already confessed? I couldn’t make up my mind. Should I continue to try to tie up all the loose ends in my head, or was it time to consider the Craig Palmer murder case closed and go back to my life? Making minis, tutoring, and getting ready for the wedding of the decade. I knew in the end I wouldn’t get much mental rest until I learned what evidence the police had against Catherine. It would also have been nice to know how Bebe was doing and if her brother was aware of her attempt to sacrifice her freedom for him, if indeed that had been what prompted her to confess.

As a token gesture, I decided to call Bev as soon as I got in and set a date for shopping. She needed help, she kept telling me. There were entirely too many pairs of shoes out there for her to choose among, even considering that she wanted to match her dress, a shade of green that was perfect for her red-highlighted Porter hair.

As I pulled into my driveway, I saw that I had company waiting. June Chinn was sitting on my front steps, outfitted for warm weather with a bright yellow tank top, cut-off denim shorts, and her black hair tied back in a ponytail. She gave me a big smile and patted the concrete next to her, a reasonably clean patch. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw that she was eating packaged cookies.

“I’ve been staking out your place,” she said.

“I hope the journey wasn’t too rough on you,” I teased. My petite next-door neighbor and I called each other Eichler cousins since my house was pale blue with dark blue trim, hers two shades of green and the mirror image of mine in layout.

I sat next to her, my stomach churning as I watched her chain-eat flat round vanilla cookies with a “crème” filling made of who knew what. I opened my mouth to invite her in for my ginger cookies, but from her strained expression I realized she wouldn’t know the difference right now, and more important, she needed to be in control of this little visit.

“Skip and Maddie came by to pick up her swimsuit,” she said. “Skip was going to take her to the pool at his club. I didn’t think she liked swimming that much?”

“She doesn’t, not since she discovered computers. But something’s up. She told me she wished she had a pool in her yard.”

“Hmm,” June said. “Didn’t you say that she and Taylor are on the outs this summer?”

“She hasn’t said so specifically, but it seems that way, yes.”

“Is there, by any chance, another girl in the group of friends around here who has a swimming pool?”

It took only a minute to absorb what June was saying. “Henry told me that Taylor went to a pool party this past weekend. And then it became a slumber party as well.”

“Uh-huh, I’ve been there,” June said, with a nod of her head. “A new girl with more resources moves in and before you know it, your BFF goes off and leaves you hanging. Then you’re alone and your BFF feels guilty because you weren’t invited, but she can’t give up a party like that. Then the party turns into more parties, and on and on.”

“You really have been there.”

June laughed. “For me it was a pony.”

“The other girl had a pony?”

“She did. A golden pony, as I remember it. I’ll never forget Kimberley or the pony. She lived way on the other side of the tracks”—June stretched her short arm up and away from our spot on my steps—“and she offered certain girls rides and other girls not. Kim seemed to go for one member of a pair, like she was deliberately setting out to break up BFFs, though we didn’t call them that at the time.”

Something clicked in my brain. I’d suddenly remembered an important remark that Maddie had made right before the earthquake on Saturday. “Nobody likes me,” I said out loud.

“What?” June asked. “Everybody likes you.”

“Maddie said that the other day. Then the rattling and rolling started and it went out of my mind. It fits with what you’re saying.”

“Definitely,” June responded. “That’s how you feel when it happens. When your best friend hooks up with someone else, you feel like nobody likes you.”

“Poor Maddie,” I said, not intending the sentiment to come out, but June was the right person to hear it. She put her arm around my shoulder.

“The good news is that the situation takes care of itself eventually. My prediction: Taylor will come crawling back once she sees that the new girl is all about collecting trophies and Maddie is the real gem of a friend.”

“Thanks,” I squeaked, more impatient than ever for Maddie’s return.

I was impressed by June’s insight, but then, she was much closer to eleven years old than I was. I started to feel guilty that June might have solved one of my big problems, and I hadn’t done a thing for her except allow her to gorge herself on an inferior snack. I had to own up.

“I’ll bet you haven’t been boiling in the heat, staking out my house, to share your childhood traumas and help me with Maddie’s.”

June let out a big sigh, and waited for a noisy pickup to pass on the street. “I was hoping to talk to you about Skip and me,” she said, offering me a cookie.

I was afraid it would come to that. I didn’t know which was worse, being asked for romantic advice or having a bag of store-bought cookies waved under my nose. I could smell the chemicals.

“Thanks,” I said and took the cookie. “I’m really not a good one to ask for advice on matters like this. As you see, I can’t even figure out what’s going on with eleven-year-olds.”

“But you know Skip best, maybe even better than his mom does.”

“Skip isn’t that complicated,” I said. I heard how dumb that sounded almost immediately. Of course it was simple for me. I was his aunt; my only job was to root for him and provide nourishment now and then. “Can you explain what’s wrong?” I asked, trying to redeem myself.

June told me her side of the story, which matched Bev’s interpretation—that Skip criticized her for being a workaholic when he spent every bit as much time as she did at work.

“Do you think it’s just an excuse, the work thing?” she asked, wiggling her toes in her flip-flops and studying the motion as if it were a science project, and a simple one compared to her emotional struggle.

“I don’t know. I know his feelings for you seem genuine to me, and he’s been with you longer than anyone I can remember.” Lame, but the best I could do.

“Maybe we’ve been together too long? It seems like, just as things are going along super-great, he ups and picks a fight and we’re off again. It’s almost like he waits until nothing’s wrong, and then he makes something wrong. Do you know what I mean?”

“Well, I—”

“Wow, I see it, Gerry,” June interrupted, scooting over and turning to face me. “He gets scared when things are too good, and he has to do something to aggravate me so I’ll call it off. What do you think?”

“Well, I—” I started again.

“Especially with his mom’s wedding coming up. I’ll bet he thinks if everything is smooth with us, I’m going to push him into a wedding, too, and really I’m not in any more of a rush than he is. That’s it,” she said, exultant. “I’ll just make sure he knows that.” She stood and bent over slightly to hug me. With my height and her lack of it, the embrace worked perfectly. “Thank you so, so much, Gerry. I knew you could clear it up for me,” she said, and skipped off to her green Eichler in a trail of thank-yous.

I pulled a tissue from my purse and wrapped the rest of the so-called cookie in it, in preparation for tossing it in the garbage. “You’re welcome,” I called after her.

If only the other problems on my list would work themselves out the same way.

* * *

I thought
it was about time I tried to reconnect with my granddaughter. I tried her cell and Skip’s, with no luck. Maybe cell phones were banned from the swimming pool area of Skip’s club. At least I could dispense with all the bad images that had crowded my mind. Before I’d heard Skip’s message and gotten eyewitness testimony from June, I’d envisioned a toxic bagel at Willie’s, an automobile accident, a mugging (not so far-fetched now that the town had chalked up a murder to start the summer).

Overgrowths of weeds among the strips of flowerbeds at the end of my walkway had been nagging at me and I walked over to get rid of them. Maybe next time I’d let my landscaping guy use some of the eco-friendly poison he was always touting.

I was distracted by the noise of an oncoming car—a van, in fact, with Video Jeff’s logo. Jeff exited one side of the van, Bebe the other. Jeff looked forlorn, probably torn between relief that his sister had been released and panic that his girlfriend had been arrested. Bebe wore her usual frown and tense expression.

“Hey, Mrs. Porter,” he called as they walked toward me. Bebe waved, as if we were a great distance apart and her voice wouldn’t carry.

“How are you two?” I asked.

“We thought we should come in person,” Jeff said, with no assenting nod from Bebe, and giving me no clue as to what precipitated this unprecedented visit.

“Would you like to come in for a cold drink?”

“If you don’t mind.” Jeff again.

“Follow me,” I said, wondering if Bebe would ever say anything. It was possible that her last allocution to me, that she’d murdered Craig Palmer, had done her in.

We talked only about the weather—the hottest first week in June ever, a bad summer for water coming up, with rationing likely—until we were all seated in my atrium with chilled glasses of iced tea in hand.

“I sure made a mess of things, didn’t I?” Jeff asked.

I could think of a couple of things that might be messed up, from Bebe’s confession (definitely) to Catherine’s arrest (maybe). “What did you have to do with the mess, Jeff?” I asked.

“Look, I realize I have no right to ask you for anything, Mrs. Porter, but now Catherine’s been arrested.”

“I know that.”

“It changes things.”

“And I’m very sorry about that, but if you’re asking me to do something about it, I’m afraid—”

“I know where you’re coming from. The last time I asked you to help, I know you got into a little trouble. Bebe told me she had to tell the police that she confessed to you and that made you look bad with the cops.”

An interesting way to put it. “Well, it all worked out,” I said.

“I know my sister went off the deep end trying to protect me. I never expected that.”

“What did you think I’d do?” Bebe, at last, more mellow than I would have predicted.

I still wasn’t sure why the siblings had arrived on my doorstep, but I thought I might as well clear up some points for myself. “Jeff, did you say or do something that caused Bebe to believe you killed Craig?” I asked.

“Other than that the two of them were fighting over a woman who should have stayed in New York and left us all in peace?” Bebe asked.

Jeff scratched his head, thinking. Or trying to get his story straight? “I told her I was there and I hoped the police didn’t find out.”

I gulped. “You were where?”

“I went looking for Catherine. Our last date, you might call it, didn’t end well, and she wasn’t answering her phone. She has Caller ID, you know, so she was obviously mad at me. I went to the store to find her, and…”

“And?” I prompted.

“And I saw Craig, on the floor.”

“How did you get in?”

“That back door was propped open. It was really hot inside so I figured she was in there, finishing up, and needed some air. I called out to her but no one answered. I walked in, and all of a sudden, I saw him. Craig Palmer. I’d only seen him for a minute when he was on his way to meet you guys in Sadie’s that afternoon.”

“You saw us in Sadie’s? Were you following Catherine?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t say following exactly, but I knew he’d come into town and I was curious, you know, even to see what he looked like. Catherine had pointed him out in a picture she had of an office party. But I wanted to see him in the flesh.”

“Pssh,” Bebe uttered. Meaning what, I couldn’t say.

Jeff continued. “Palmer and a younger woman came around the corner by Seward’s coffee shop, which is right across the street from my store, as you know, so I got a pretty good look as he walked by and continued on to Sadie’s.” He shrugged his shoulders and looked sheepish. “And I might have watched him walk down the street.”

“And you recognized him when you went into SuperKrafts looking for Catherine later that evening?”

“Uh-huh. Even though he was on his stomach, I could tell the dead guy was him. That brown and gray hair. And who else would be wearing a black suit in June? He was sprawled out on the floor, this huge crate of pottery on top of him.” Jeff closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Did you call the police? Nine-one-one?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to make a point.

“No, I knew how it would look. My girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend is dead and I’m the only other one in the place. Or maybe not, you know? I wasn’t interested in hanging around to find out if it was an accident or…whatever. What if the killer was still there? Besides, there was no question that he was dead. Nine-one-one wasn’t going to be able to help him. Plus, I knew the cops would be making rounds all night because of the quake and they’d find him soon enough.”